


April Is Over

by faint_of_hearts, ice_cream_assassin



Category: Political RPF - UK 20th-21st c.
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Bullying, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-15
Updated: 2013-03-15
Packaged: 2018-01-15 21:11:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 12,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1319320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/faint_of_hearts/pseuds/faint_of_hearts, https://archiveofourown.org/users/ice_cream_assassin/pseuds/ice_cream_assassin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Totally self-indulgent series of fics about Nat and George, inspired by prompts on the meme. Co-written with an old tumblr friend, faint_of_hearts (aka sleeping_pattern)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Nat remembers him as Gideon Osborne, with wild hair and big glasses too large for his face. They parted ways after Colet Court. Nat went to Eton while he was sent off to St. Paul's. He barely recognizes him, with long curls and the permanent sneer fixed across his lips. He's no longer Gideon, preferring to go by George. Even though George's background is less impressive compared to Nat's, he looks more aristocratic than Nat does. With his rebellious nature, teenage Lothario ways, and scruffy appearance, Nat barely managed to get out of Eton, relying on his family's name to even get him into Oxford and an invitation to the Bullingdon. They both seem shocked, running into each other at Oxford and then later at George's Bullingdon initiation. The other members already seem to have a keen interest in George, since he's not from the usual Eton or Harrow background. 

They cheer him on as he climbs up on the table. One of the older members hands off a full bottle of tequila. For all of their wealth and prestige, one would think the Bullingdon would be able to purchase the top shelf liquor for their initiates. Nat watches, as George breathes deeply and opens the bottle. The chants of "Chug, chug" become louder and he tips the bottle up, and begins to drink. Nat's concern grows, his eyes never leaving George's pale throat as he swallows the vile liquid. He drops the empty bottle to the floor, glass shards scattering across the hardwood floor. George wobbles on the table, managing to get down without assistance. He gets patted on the back and congratulated. He's one of them now. 

George stays as long as he can before he makes a mad dash to the gents. Nat can't stop himself from following him. The poor boy is hunched over the toilet, the stall door wide open. No one is around, to see Nat kneel behind him. 

"It will be all right. Tomorrow is gonna be a little rough." Nat says, one hand raking through the mass of dark hair, holding it back away from George's face. Nat's other hand runs down his spine, in hopes of being soothing. He thinks he hears George slur the word thanks before he starts another round of retching. 

******  
Their first year in the Bullers is filled with hazing. All the new recruits go through it. The second year is easier for Nat, as he aims to become the president. George hangs on, barely fitting in. Nat feels like George needs him to survive and that kind of power over a person makes Nat feel heady. He's never really sure why he tells the other members that George changed his name. Nat does get a perverse sense of glee at hearing the other members taunt him, forcing him to only answer to "Gideon" when they meet for club business. 

At some point when Nat is sure he and George are alone, Nat feels the need to apologize and George gives his forgiveness easily. Without the fog of needing to be popular and alcohol and girls and drugs, Nat admits to himself that he likes the times he and George can just be. He brushes the hair out of George's face and his hand trembles as it traces George's cheekbones and jaw line. Nat is no blushing virgin. Eton gave him a myriad of experiences with boys and the holidays have always been able to provide him with available girls to conquer. There is something potentially fragile and dangerous here. George's breathing hitches and Nat wonders if he is scared, if he can sense the same fragility that Nat does, if he's ever been with anyone. 

Nat doesn't ask what he wants. Instead Nat pulls his hand back, "Would you mind if I still called you Gids? Like I used to back at Colet."

George stares him down with his hazel eyes, a thousand words going unsaid between them. "I don't mind if it is just you."

Afterwards, Nat convinces the rest of the Bullingdon to stop calling George, Gideon. It pleases him when other members of the club opt to nickname George 'Oik.' They have more creativity than Nat gives them credit for.

When Nat becomes president of the Bullers, he makes it a point to have more regular lavish parties: Girls, booze, cocaine, the works. Even surrounded by other club members and outsiders, George manages to isolate himself. He's with a girl, and she's pawing at him on the sofa. He looks uncomfortable as her hand makes several attempts to massage his groin. Nat chugs his flute of champagne, hoping it would wash away the feeling of jealousy beginning to cloud his thoughts. He smashes the glass on the table, starting a chain reaction leading to more broken crystal flutes and goblets. During the cacophony, he watches George slip out, sans the girl. Nat pursues. 

George is outside, smoking alone. Nat lets it go that he doesn't acknowledge his arrival. Nat snatches the cigarette from George's slender fingers and stubs it out on George's collar. It earns him a sigh and a look of contempt. And all the lonely things between them seem to want to change.

"Where's the pretty thing you were with earlier?" 

"She wasn't with me." 

"Certainly looked like it." 

"I wasn't interested." 

"Hmmm." Nat brushes at the ash mark on George's collar. "Anything you are interested in?" 

"Piss off." Nat grips the collar, pulling him close. Nat's hand is over George's heart, and he swears he can feel it pounding, ready to burst out of his chest. He starts slow, gliding his hand over George's chest, the sensitive skin on his neck, before he twines his fingers in George's dark curls, bringing him closer. He is breathing fast, and Nat can feel the warmth of his breath, soft and teasing against his lips. Cautious, afraid of spooking George, Nat only brushes their lips together; dry and barely there. George leans closer, closing the tiny sliver between them. He is eager, clumsy and soft as he opens his mouth against Nat's. Nat eases his tongue inside, feeling the vibrations from George's whimper. 

George turns his head away first, a bright blush creeping across his pale face. "I've never been with a man." 

"Have you ever?" Nat whispers into his ear, nipping at the lobe. He suppresses his laughter as he hears George talk about a cramped backseat, a broken condom and pregnancy scare. 

"I'm better than that." Nat promises. He stands, offering his hand out to George. He accepts everything Nat is offering. Waddesdon is large enough they slip away from the rest of the party unnoticed and go to Nat's rooms. 

He’s guarded at first as Nat peels away his clothes, exposing pale flesh, sparsely covered with coarse dark hair. Nat guides George's hands over him, helping George undress him so they both are naked. The air around them is heavy with arousal. Nat buries his face in George’s neck, kissing and smelling his skin. His mouth moves, words spilling out telling George how beautiful he is.

He pushes George gently back against the mattress. He is staring at Nat, wide-eyed, uncertain. He bends his head and kisses George full on the lips. There is nothing elegant about it. The kiss is long and clumsy and hungry. Nat presses their naked bodies together. Both of them gasp at the contact, stunned at the jolts of heated pleasure that shot from their groins and pulsed through their veins.

Nat slides lower, letting his lips play across George's chest. He wants to suck him, to taste him. Nat's fingers tease George's cock, repeatedly drawing the delicate foreskin back and then forward until he cries out and his hips buck against Nat's palm. Nat tentatively laps his tongue over the skin, tracing the tip. His hand slides the foreskin back and Nat's head bobs down, sucking loud and wet. He enjoys the little whimpers that George makes as Nat performs his ministrations. His tongue feels George's erection become stiffer, and Nat pulls off before George can come. 

Nat gets back on top of George. His dark hair is messy, fanned out over the pillows, hands are clasping the comforter. He writhes beneath Nat, wanton and desperate. Nat sucks at George's lower lip. His mouth opened eagerly to draw Nat's tongue in with his own as his hand moved Nat's shoulder. Nat feels him thrusting up against Nat's hip. 

Nat regrets not being more prepared. He wasn't expecting to be able to bed George tonight and doesn't have the necessities to fuck his arse. He shifts his weight for better leverage, rocking forward, sliding against George's pelvis. Nat's hand squeezes George's side, encouraging him to push back against Nat. Their bodies fall into the rhythmic slap-sliding of skin on skin. Their heavy pants and the creaking of the mattress springs provide the soundtrack. 

George persists with wet sloppy kisses, his tongue mapping Nat's mouth. Nat felt George's restless hands roam over his arms and back. Nat's groin pulsed tighter and tighter with each thrust. He tried to slow down to make it last. George shimmied erratically against his hips. Nat paused; watching at George tumbled over the edge. His eyes were shut tight, mouth opened in a wordless cry, as Nat felt the release of sticky warmth onto his stomach. Nat rocked back on his knees, taking his erection in hand. It only took a few pumps his own shuddering climax consumed him.

Nat uses one of their discarded shirts to clean up the mess on their stomachs. George looks completely debauched and spent, his limbs splayed across Nat's bed. Nat tosses the shirt aside and gets in beside him, wanting to spoon. George moves, wiggling closer to Nat's body. Nat bites his neck, sucking hard, hoping to form a bruise, wanting George to belong to him. 

******  
It becomes popular for the Bullers to catch George, hold him upside down by the ankles and interrogate him. Nat watches, he's never an active participant; he just gives his approval. 

"Who are you?"

Each 'wrong' answer brings about George being dropped. They repeat this several times before George squeals, "I am a despicable cunt." 

The group releases him and as they clear out, Nat moves in. George knows he is the unseen ringleader of his tormentors. There is something that is twisted in his heart, and it makes Nat hurt both of them. The apology goes unspoken and George's forgiveness still remains easy to obtain. Nat caresses the bump forming on George's head, making sure no one is looking before pressing a kiss against his forehead. It is what George doesn't say that drives Nat crazy, that makes him want to keep him near in his orbit, which just emphasizes the dangerous and fragile nature of their liaison.


	2. Chapter 2

George silently fumed in the corner. The others were drunk, some snorting cocaine. Nat was with some girl, just another notch to add to his bedpost. George assumed Nat’s chances of fucking the girl were at 50/50. Nat would get laid regardless, if the girl backed out then Nat would seek him out. It was his own fault for letting himself feel affection toward Nat, not complaining about being second best.

More and more these days, George minded his own business, trying not to be too closely associated with the rowdy Bullingdon. The parties, which used to be fun time-wasting events, now felt like a chore to attend.

George swallowed the rest of his drink as a trio of boys in their tails approached him. He rolled his eyes, knowing it must be that time on the party’s agenda to harass the St. Paul’s alumni. Verbal taunts began followed by sharp pokes into George’s arms. The leader of the trio pulled hard on a lock of George’s long hair.

“Stop it.”

“C’mon. Grab the Oik’s arms.”

Nat stared past the group as George kicked at the boy trying to pin his legs. The other one succeeded in pushing George down and held him down by his shoulders. The girl hanging on Nat’s arm looked horrified, glancing between the scene taking place and up at Nat’s face. Her eyes implored Nat to do something. And Nat could intervene, could be the hero of this situation, if he was feeling magnanimous.

“All right.” George pleaded. “I’m a fucking oik. Now let me go.”

The one not holding onto George’s squirming body produced a pair of scissors. George’s eyes widened as the cool metal traced down one side of his face and then up the other side. “I think it is time for Oik to have a haircut.”

Nat’s date pinched his arm, hissing in his ear, “They are drunk with a sharp object. Do something.”

“They’re not going to hurt him.” They were Nat’s creations. Nat knew well enough that it was just a game to rile George up. No permanent bodily harm would be caused.

George held a breath as a section of his hair was pulled taut. And fuck, they really were going to do this. Don’t cry, don’t cry. But his mental soundtrack didn’t help as his hazel eyes filled with tears. The scissors snipped at the curl and then the bastard smirked waving it around like a prized trophy.

George struggled again to try to break free. The lock of his hair was tossed aside and he felt fingers carding through, separating another piece of hair to cut. The sound of glass breaking startled them but also signalled Nat was approaching the group.

“May I?” Nat held out his hand and flashed a charming smile. His sharp cheeks were flushed from the alcohol. Nat accepted the scissors. He surprised George by tossing the item carelessly over his shoulder.

“What did you do that for?”

“You are ruining my party.” Of course, it was all about Nat and inconveniencing him. Nat and the other boy stared off at each other. The two goons holding George down released him. They stood, poised to assist their leader if it came to blows between him and Nat. Catching the group off guard again; Nat reached into his jacket pocket and offered his flask to them.

George used this opportunity to leave.

“Gids.” Nat followed him. “Are you okay?”

George kept walking.  
*****

He said something. Nat always said something to ruin things. She pushed him off and got dressed.

“Don’t be like that.” The words slurred together. “In less than ten minutes, you’re going to right back here.” And he doesn’t mean to blurt that out as he pulled on his trousers, attempting to rearrange the cloth and his erection to a less painful position.

“Right.” She looked a little horrified. “That would be a little bit more believable if you just didn’t call me Gids.”

She remained barefoot, carrying her heels, rushing to get away from him. She slammed the door, leaving him struggling to redo the buttons on the bright white dress shirt. Fucking tart anyway. Nat thinks. Her loss.

He returned to the party, and without the girl he feels the lack of George's presence. They weren't talking. He vaguely recalled some of the other Bullingdon members trying to cut George's hair. But he stopped that. He intervened and saved George's soft curls. Or maybe they weren't talking because of the other girls Nat felt compelled to date for appearances. It was always difficult to tell what would send George away to sulk.

Thinking about George made Nat's head hurt. No matter how many times he tried to drown in the excellent red wine from his family's vineyards, George was seared there in his thoughts. The thing was, Nat didn't mind, sometimes he could categorize the feelings as kind of nice.

Tonight just wasn't one those nights where he wanted to feel anything for George. He found a group, huddled over a mirror with white powder arranged in neat white lines across the surface. Tonight he wanted all thoughts and romantic notions about George away from him, buried so deep that he wouldn't be able to find it.

The party was winding down when Chris and Harry found him wandering through the wreckage of broken glass and upturned furniture. After two lines of coke and half a bottle of Château Mouton Rothschild, all Nat wanted to do was write a love note on George's neck with his tongue; to pull on dark curls, not knowing whether he wanted to just be close to George or hurt him.

When George found him, he was sitting on the floor just inside the door of George's room. Nat had stumbled in, before giving up on walking. He crawled that far and couldn't get much further. His jacket was lost somewhere, the cream waistcoat hung open and the blue bow tie draped untied around Nat’s neck. George’s nose twitched and Nat was more than aware that he smelled like a winery, with hints of the girl’s perfume. His eyes are unfocused. He still has her smeared lipstick decorating the corners of his mouth.

“Gids! Less than ten minutes, you’re going to be right here.” He patted the empty space next to him, waggling his eyebrows.

George cautiously knelt so that they were face to face. Nat doesn't look up at him, so George caught him by the chin and brought his face up so they could look each other in the eye. He acted on instinct from too much practice with idiots who have taken something they shouldn't.

"What did you take?" he pressed. Nat shook his head, pulling loose from George's grip.

"Just the usual." Nat mumbled. "To help take care of the thoughts."

"What are you talking about?" George asked carefully. He leaned back on his heels. Nat's eyes fluttered shut.

Nat made a sound that was close to a laugh. "Silly, precious Gids."

"Nat." George said. His voice sharpened even if he did not want it to.

"Just thinking. Only thinking." Nat mused. His eyes opened again, wide and earnest. "About you. What we do."

"Nothing is wrong with that, is there?" Nat questioned and George found himself leaning into the clumsy grace of Nat's fingertips. His fingers brushed their way over the angles of George’s cheekbones, flitting across the tip of his oddly shaped nose, trailing along his jaw.

Nat brushed an errant curl aside, and he moved faster than anyone that blitzed should be able to do. His mouth connected with George's. The kiss is all teeth and drunken viciousness, but George opened his mouth; taking it, giving it back, licking the taste of expensive and stale wine out of Nat's mouth.

“No. It’s fine.” George said, the words tinged with hope and mistrust. Not that Nat can blame George for his misgivings. He lost track of all the other times he had said similar things to George.

His hazel eyes were mostly closed, and he was warm and pliant, as he allowed Nat to push him down on the floor. Their hips pressed together, and Nat was determined to take them both apart, right there in all their clothes. George’s hand was on the back of Nat’s neck, holding on as he stroked his cock through his trousers. He then slid his pale hands over Nat’s back, resting them over Nat’s hips. Nat’s hand was met with a needy hip thrust. Nat pushed back against him, matching his rhythm.

George’s dark hair was tousled and his grip on Nat’s hips tightened. Nat watched as his mouth opened in a silent O and his body trembled when he came in his trousers. As his hands slackened their hold on Nat’s hips, Nat guided one and held it against his erection. He grinded against George’s palm until he felt the rush of his own sticky release messing up his pants.

After, Nat felt sated and heavy-lidded drunk, more asleep than awake. George tried to nudge him away, but Nat protested. “I want to sleep.”

“Me too, but not on the floor and not in damp pants.” George countered. This time, Nat moved without argument. He leaned against George when George tugged him to his feet and guided him to bed. And it must be from having younger brothers that George is patient with him, steering him around obstacles and finally helping Nat out of his clothes. He tossed Nat a pair of clean boxers to sleep in for the night, a little loose in the waist but not enough to bother Nat. He watched and waited until George changed before reclining and sinking down into the mattress.

The bed shifted as George climbed in. Nat pulled on his arm, silently demanding for George to sleep closer to him. George sighed, rolling over to drape his arm across Nat’s waist. His head rested against Nat’s chest. Nat splayed his palm over George’s scalp, content feeling George’s hair against his fingers.

“I’m sorry I can be an idiot at times.” He whispered. George doesn’t respond, listening to Nat’s breaths get calmer and relaxing George down into sleep.


	3. Chapter 3

"You're taking too much."

Nat can feel the heat from George's scowl, aimed at him from under the curtain of dark curls. Nat raises an eyebrow in his direction before he takes the rolled up pound note and snorts a line of the white powder in front of him. He winces, feeling his nose burning. He wasn't expecting this shit to be strong. He repeated the action with the other nostril. He sniffles some more, wiping his nose against the sleeve of his rented tails. Feeling the cocaine kicking in, Nat tilts his head back, lips parted. When he looks back over at George he laughs. He is like Nat's disapproving guardian angel. He even thinks that there is a halo around the head of dark hair but that could be a trick of the light or the drugs.

"What is so funny?" George sneers.

"Gideon, my guardian." Nat laughs, and it causes George to storm away. Nat finds him a contradiction so self-assured at some things and then sentimental and fickle over things like his name. Nat gets over George's little ridiculous tantrum in a flash as he hears the smashing of bone china.

The party escalates per usual Bullingdon standards. Food and wine flowed freely. Priceless vases, fine china, and crystal glasses were smashed with drunken glee. Bets were placed on a fist fight that had broken out between Coleridge and some Italian fellow. Somehow through the drug and wine fueled haze, Nat manages to organize a football match on the manicured lawn. George was on the sidelines, watching with mild alarm, sipping a glass of red wine. Nat caught his stare and winked. He couldn't stay angry with Nat for long, not over something a trivial as a name. Nat already was imaging his hands threading through George's hair, pushing him down on his knees. Nat's pulse was fucking ringing in his ears.

The football match started. Nat chases after the ball, struggling to keep his breath. His heart feels like it is going to explode out of his chest and then nothing but a bright flash.

Nat is cold, shivering underneath the mountain of blankets. He vaguely remembers the party and broken china and how he is going to explain the damage away to his parents. He sits up in bed, eyes meeting a stern look from George. His jacket is off and the blue bow tie hangs untied around his neck.

"You passed out on the lawn. The butler was trying to revive you." He was angry again. "The others just shifted their fucking game over a few feet. I told you. You were taking too much."

Nat can't help the satisfaction he feels when he notices the red rimmed eyes and he just needs George here, next to him with his warmth.

"Come here." Nat demands, shifting over.

"I really don't think you're in any condition to get a leg over."

"It isn't always like that."

"With you it usually is."

Nat smiles as George gets into the bed, still clothed. Nat moves closer, his mouth presses against his shoulder and leaves a saliva mark on the white shirt. Nat can feel himself shaking from the after effects of the cocaine, from the not knowing if he was going to be able to wake up again. His hands card through dark curls and he feels George's arm circle him, hugging tightly.

George presses a chaste kiss to his temple. "I'm here."

Nat pecks his cheek, "I think I was scared."

George kisses his lips and Nat kisses back. He moves his hands slowly through George's hair. Fingertips brush along George's scalp. Nat feels him shiver. He tries to be gentle as he teases out the tangles. Nat's hand moves slower with each pass through George's curls. He wraps one of the dark tendrils around his index finger, pulling the strands between his fingers and then letting the lock drop across George's pale forehead. He looks content, relaxing as Nat plays with his hair. Occasionally, he'll interrupt Nat, with gentle kisses while he caresses Nat's back. Nat can feel his arousal pressing into his thigh, but George never pushes to escalate this further. George dozes off first, his head resting against Nat's chest. Nat follows, his fingers splayed across George's scalp.


	4. Chapter 4

He meets them on the steps of Christ Church. They are all decked out in Bullingdon finery: the tails, the waistcoats, blue bowties, and haughty expressions. Nat looks at him and George turns away, not acknowledging the glance. They’re in one of those phases again, where Nat does something to anger George and George refuses to talk to Nat until the slight is so far in the back of his mind that he can begin to forgive Nat. It is frustrating, but it works for them.

Several pictures are snapped and George is getting bored. The challenge was getting into the Bullingdon, being the first from St. Paul’s to achieve such a feat. Now it’s just achingly dull and predictable. They like to torment Harry now, leaving George alone, unless Nat specifically orchestrates something for revenge. But he hasn’t and he’s staring at George again and he instantly knows that it is going to be one of those nights. Not that he minds Nat’s hands and mouth on him. Just the denials and the girlfriends hurt. But George thinks he has no right to ask Nat for exclusivity. It’s just not the done thing, not with who they are and with the societal norms, and it is not the fair thing either since George has had his share of people on the side too. Besides, George isn’t Nat’s first love. (alcohol) Nor is he even Nat’s second. (women) He’ll always be third place, if he even rates that high in Nat’s mind.

The portrait session ends after an agonizing hour of standing and swapping poses and places. Dinner and drinks and mischief are to follow, but George doesn’t even make it that far. Not with Nat’s hand wrapping around his slim wrist, holding him firmly in place. Even in his tails, Nat looks dishevelled with messy reddish curls and his bowtie askew. And he doesn’t do this when there is a group milling about. This happens after several flutes of champagne and a few lines of cocaine.

“I’m not going with them tonight. Not after last time.” Nat still looks genuinely scared of his brief brush with death. And George remembers that panic, the feeling of loss when Nat fell over, passed out from too much wine and coke. No one else cared though. Silly Rothschild and his pranks. Just didn’t want to admit he couldn’t play football. The game shifted over and the party continued as George and the butler carried Nat inside. His eyes are pleading with George to stay with him. “You can go if that’s what you want.”

“But you don’t want me to.”

Nat’s eyes close and he gives one of those half-smiles and a soft chuckle to himself. “You’re going to make me ask, aren’t you?” He sighs dramatically. “Fine, stay with me.”

George hesitates, but then Nat’s thumb brushes over his pulse and he looks at George and adds “Please” in a breathy rush. George hates at how easily he gives his forgiveness to the bastard.

No one notices the pair slip away. Nothing eventful happens. They have a quiet dinner together and roam around Nat’s college. It is just nice being with him, not feeling compelled to fill the quiet with idle chatter. He’s pleasant company for a change and George assumes that is a harbinger of something. He can’t be quite sure if that something will be good or bad.

Eventually they retreat to Nat’s apartment. As George follows Nat through the door, he notices the white flowers on the table. Roses, carnations and lilies. A box sat near the petals. When he sees George looking at the items, he picks up the box and hands it to him. “For you.”

George turns the present over in his hands, looking at it and then at Nat with suspicion. His eyes are wide, glued to watching George’s slender fingers. It is a small box, lightweight, a gift, to George from Nat. Like George is one of Nat’s pretty girls and he’s trying to buy his favour.

“You didn’t get this for me,” George raises an eyebrow at him.

He only shrugs at George, with a mischievous smile. “Of course I bought it for you. Are you going to open it? I want to see if you like it.”

He opens it not expecting a watch to be inside. A Cartier watch with a leather band and gold case. He tries to make words come out because he can’t accept this. He remains speechless and Nat is all smiles. He takes George’s wrist again and puts the watch on him and then kisses his palm, then kisses his lips. “You like it, don’t you? It suits you. Not too flashy.”

“A little much to give your toy-boy.”

Nat frowns. “Is that what you think?”

“I don’t know what to think about you or about whatever we are.”

Nat runs a hand through George’s dark curls, down his face, and rests his forehead against George’s. His hand stays against George’s cheek as his arm wraps around George’s waist. He can feel Nat shaking with all the things left unsaid between them. George strokes Nat’s arms.

“You’re going to make me say it and then call me a liar when I can’t meet your impossible expectations.” Nat murmurs. His eyes are shut tight, so he doesn’t see George mouthing no, not that it matters because underneath what George is feeling now, he knows that Nat is right. He should give the watch back and leave. But he doesn’t and before Nat can confess anything, George kisses him and leads them to Nat’s bedroom.

They have a ritual when dressed like this. The jackets go first. Then George’s waistcoat and Nat’s bowtie. Nat’s hands slide down George’s torso, lips kissing his mouth open and fingers undoing the annoying buttons. They pause the kissing long enough for George to shrug off the cream waistcoat and then he’s back to paying attention to Nat with fingers fumbling to undo the blue bowtie.

“Patience.” Nat whispers and holds on to George’s hands. Lips brush over his right hand’s knuckles and then the left. Patience from Nat is not something that George is used to. They’re usually tearing into each other by now, ripping and grinding until they are left in a shuddering, messy pile. “Aren’t you tired of us constantly looking past each other and never noticing things?”

George rolls his eyes because Nat is being bloody ridiculous tonight. “Really?”

“You are so confusing.” Nat says into George’s ear as he deftly undoes George’s tie and lets it flutter to the floor. He moves to the buttons of George’s shirt and kisses along the trail of skin that becomes revealed. Hands slide inside the unbuttoned shirt and rub along George’s sides. Nat’s hands remove the white shirt and he nips at George’s collarbone. “I see you, more than you think. You missed a spot when you shaved today, you have a little scar below your lip from when Sinclair hit you and his signet ring cut you, and your posture goes stiff when I call you Gids.”

George snorts, finishing where Nat left off with undressing him. “Then why do you still do it?”

“Reminds me of how far back we go.” His fingers are hot against George’s bare skin. There is a sober clarity in Nat’s eyes that George hasn’t seen in such a long time. And he just fits in some special place that has been waiting for him since Colet. George can’t stand this semblance of patience when they are both aroused and want to drown in each other. Nat doesn’t protest when George tears at the bowtie again, kissing him, breathing him in. His lips follow his hands down Nat’s chest, ripping at buttons and cloth; struggling to find that equilibrium between them again, before expensive watches and not so vocal declarations of feelings that they may or may not have.

He finishes getting Nat out of his shirt and falls to his knees. The belt and trousers are undone and he feels Nat’s fingers thread into his curly hair, pulling him away from Nat’s half-erect cock. Nat is blushing embarrassed by something and avoiding George’s gaze.

Nat squeezes George’s hips, then his hands slide around to squeeze his arse. “I was thinking we could try something different tonight.”

The words send a spike of heat rushing down George’s spine. He feels weak as they tumble down on Nat’s mattress. Their lips meet again and again in sweet and agonizingly slow kisses. Nat’s tongue trails over his bottom lip and his hands are fluttering over George’s naked body. His cock is aching for Nat’s attention but only receives the barest brushes. He rolls them so he is on top, grinding down against Nat’s hips and trailing kisses down his neck and teasing his tongue over Nat’s nipples.

A soft tug on a lock of hair distracts George from mapping Nat’s tummy with his mouth. Their eyes meet and they are both naked and breath ragged. His thumb traces George’s jaw line. Fingers shaky and tapping out a soft pattern as they move to George’s neck, pulling him in for a kiss. “I want to fuck you.” Nat says against his lips. And Nat being inside of him was not something he knew he wanted until Nat mentioned it.

Nat flips them again and crawls off the bed. He disappears for a second and returns with jar of Vaseline. He climbs back on the bed and coats two fingers with the Vaseline. Kisses and shaky breaths are exchanged as Nat’s slick fingers poke and prod and George shifts to help Nat reach the target.

When Nat’s slick fingers graze the puckered hole, George inhaled sharply, not used to the sensation. Nat’s voice urges him to relax and he does feeling a finger pushing inside of him. Strange but not un-welcomed. Then another finger is added, moving, stretching him open. And he wants more, wants Nat to possess him.

Nat obliges withdrawing his fingers and rushing to coat his erection with Vaseline. He positions himself; the head of his cock rubbing teasingly against George’s stretched entrance. Both moan as Nat sinks his cock into George. George’s muscles tense around Nat’s invading cock, clenching hot around it. Full, so deliciously full and stretched.

Nat remains still for seconds before slowly thrusting and fucking George in earnest. There is a little pain before bursting into pleasure. And George thinks he must be quite the sight, writhing under Nat, dark curls splashed against the pillow, lips red and kiss-swollen, rocking his hips to urge Nat to go harder, faster. And then Nat began to fist his cock, pumping in time with his thrusts. Once again writhing and moaning and feeling swallowed by just a bright white wash of pleasure.

This was going to be quick for both of them. George feels his orgasm building in his groin, in his chest, in his thoughts. Rising, rising and he is helpless. His hands scramble for purchase against Nat’s shoulders, back, and hips, fighting the urge to mark Nat’s skin. His come spurts over Nat’s fist and both of their stomachs. And then Nat goes tense above him and George’s hands roam over his back, soothing, coaxing as Nat’s cock twitches and pulses inside of him.

They were both silent for a few minutes as they caught their breath. Nat moves first, fumbling in his dresser for an old t-shirt. He pulls out two and tosses one to George. It lands next to him, and George picks it up, wiping the sweat off of his brow first before mopping up the mess on his abdomen. A shower would be better, but Nat rejoins him, encouraging George to lie against his chest. Nat’s fingers comb through George’s hair, only interrupted by Nat’s lips pressing a chaste kiss to George’s forehead, like an apology for what happened, for what will happen. He wonders if Nat wishes if they could stay like this.

He wakes up to Nat watching him, looking at him with reverence and affection. Nat’s mouth opens, but before he could say anything, they both hear it: Nat’s alarm clock wailing. Morning, signalling that it was time for George to depart.

**

Nat fucking relapses. The next time the club meets, he’s in his cups and bragging about scoring some premium cocaine from a connection in London. Everything now feels like an elaborate ploy so Nat can claim he was George’s first in every sense. He could throw the watch at him and storm out, but George hesitates. Nat couldn’t be that cruel, could he? Not after that wonderful display of gentle sincerity.

He’s with a girl, as usual. Jesting. Casually asking her to return to his room like he's asking her about the kind of wine she likes with steak or if she likes her coffee black. Like he’s not thinking of ways to charm her out of her party dress and getting naked under him.

You’re going to make me say it and then call me a liar when I can’t meet your impossible expectations.

He is a liar. Just so he could fuck George, like he’s nobody, nothing. Like always, pushed to the side feeling dirty and used. Maybe because you were. And they fall into that phase again, the one where Nat does something to anger George and George refuses to talk to Nat until the slight is so far in the back of his mind that he can begin to forgive Nat.

It is frustrating, but it works for them.


	5. Chapter 5

The worse part about leaving Oxford, Nat thinks is that he is going to miss these weekends. The ones where he grabs George's arm as he crawls out of Nat's bed, and Nat asks him to spend the night. The weekends where they would sleep together, naked, until Monday morning. There is something quite pleasant waking up next him. Now Nat is content, watching George read.

George is still naked. He is lying on his stomach, studying for some exam. Nat catches him by surprise when he takes his camera and snaps a picture. The sound of the shutter startles him and he turns to glare at Nat.

"What are you doing?"

"Incriminating photos. For when you are Prime Minister."

"Let it go Nat. I was twelve when I said that." He returns to his textbook and Nat snaps another photograph. "Will you please stop it?"

"Maybe I want a picture of you to take with me to India. Something to help me with the lonely nights."

George rolls his eyes, his dark hair parted to the side, falling over like one of those New Romantic style lead singers. Nat continues to click more pictures before George slams the text book shut and approaches him. They tug and fight over the camera before breathy butterfly kisses morph into their lips pressing together. The hungry, needy kisses are interrupted only by little raspy breaths.

Nat sets the camera down and pins George on the mattress. He smiles and his hands wrap around the back of Nat's neck. With a gentle tug, he pulls Nat's head down to resume kissing. Nat kisses back; his lips working their way down George's neck. Nat nibbles the sensitive flesh and a soft moan escapes from George. His hips writhe against Nat's groin.

George's hands slide down Nat's back, one squeezing his arse and the other reaching around and stroking Nat's hardening cock. Nat’s hand trembles as he reaches out and pushes the hair out of George's face. He touches George gently with his eyes shut; Nat revels in the feeling of skin against skin. Nat sinks his teeth into George's shoulder. He pulls George to him, until his cock is flush against George's pelvic bone. Their bodies grind, uncomfortable, with passion, pain, and possessiveness. They continue to move together. Harder. Until there is a white sticky mess between them.

In the stillness after their passion, Nat reflects on their years of being together but not really together. He is still surprised that George hasn't run, scarred by Nat's indirect bullying and mocking comments. The depth of his need for George shocks Nat and he buries the revelation.

Graduation comes and goes. They say good-bye, keeping in touch before Nat flies away to spend some time in India. George meets him at Heathrow to see him off. As Nat passes through the gate, he's turns around to wave at George, but George is already on the move. Nat did not think that he wouldn't be able to bear watching George walking away from him.

++

Annabelle is beautiful. They meet whilst Nat is getting sunburned on a beach in India. She came out from the waves, her black hair damp and sticking to her face and neck, the red bikini not leaving much to the imagination. He sees her again at a dinner party. She dances across the dinner table in a tiny dress and stiletto heels. The silverware and crystal tinkle as she moves from one end to the other. She pours champagne from the bottle directly into Nat's mouth. The rest of the guests act scandalized. Nat thinks he is in love with this wild creature. He doesn't consciously register that her smirk resembles George's or that her eyes are the same shade of mercurial hazel as George's.

He forgets about George and his life become all about Annabelle. His parents warn him to let her go. The family lawyers also get on his case about wanting to marry her. Against all rational advice, Nat and Annabelle fly to Las Vegas. They're married by an Elvis impersonator. Nat calls his parents. His father has a quiet anger about Nat eloping with Annabelle. "It can only end in tears." Lord Jacob says before ringing off. The postcard Nat mailed to George was a drunken afterthought with barely legible handwriting

I wasn't actually in love with you, but I felt a sort of tender curiosity.

For a while, the couple appeared to live a gilded life, gracing the pages of glossy magazines. They party in Cannes with Annabelle's friends such as supermodel Elle Macpherson, designer Alexander McQueen, and Tamara Beckwith. Or whenever Cannes became boring they would return to sunning themselves in the Caribbean.

What the glossy magazine spreads don't show is Nat's love affair with alcohol, and her affair with cocaine. Nights are frequently interrupted by Annabelle moaning in her sleep. She curls away from Nat when he reaches out to comfort her. She prefers to huddle against the over-sized pillows.

Nat is still just drunk enough to risk a row by stroking her hair, smooth down the dark strands that are never out of place when she's awake, but always seem to stick straight up when she's too tired to care. She mumbles something that might be "Prick", might be "Nat" or it might be nothing at all.

At one time or another, he's been all three things to her. This is one of the times where he's nothing. He's in trouble for some imagined slight. It could be showing up late to the dinner party or flirting too much with Kate Moss or something else equally frivolous.

Laying there in silence, Nat tries to remember why he fell in love with her in the first place. Does he still love her? Yes from the top of her $300 coif to her sheer McQueen dresses, to the heels of her designer boots with matching handbags. And when he’s at the bar drinking the most expensive wine, sometimes he still believes it. She doesn’t need to know he wishes her hair was a littler curlier, her chest a little flatter and more broad.

He isn’t surprised when the marriage crashes down around them after three spectacular years of parties and cataclysmic rows. He gives Annabelle a generous financial settlement in return for rescinding the Rothschild name and signing a confidentiality agreement.

“Of course you don’t want me to talk about your ‘charming’ habits.” She snipes in front of the lawyers. “You’re not exactly blessed in the looks department, either.” Nat wishes he never met her.

++

After Annabelle, it hurts more that Nat anticipated. He moves back to London, tired of his friends and the destructive socialite lifestyle and just being reminded of her on a daily basis. He decides to turn his back on partying. Using his connections and family, Nat is hired at the merchant bank Lazards in London

Nat becomes the bank’s expert with networking and gaining new contracts. He is frequently out and about courting new investments.

He may have been able to escape the social scene, but his drinking hobby remains. The ice clinks in the bottom of Nat's glass as he sets it down. At this party he is finding himself bombarded by various business pitches; he is only half listening to.

These are the people his father hobnobs with at charity functions and nods to at dinners with the mayor. The people he is already planning to use as stepping-stones, as support beams, as building blocks in his career. His father's cronies and tennis buddies have now suddenly become Nat’s.

He waits at the bar for another glass of single malt on the rocks when he hears the familiar voice of Chris Coleridge behind him. His drink is being poured by a sloth-like bartender and Nat is forced to make small talk with Chris and answer questions about those three years with Annabelle.

"Have you seen George? I heard he is engaged." Chris asks, quietly, because he knew about Nat and George. Chris and George were close at Oxford. From George, Nat knew Chris didn’t actually hold him in high regard. Not that Nat could fault Chris for his low opinion. Chris remembers him as the one who slashed car tyres of his female guests, hoping to detain them long enough for seduction and using George whenever the slash and fuck technique failed.

Nat struggles to remember when they last spoke, realizing it must have been at some point before Annabelle and the shotgun wedding. “I sent him a postcard after the wedding.”

Chris nods, and Nat is sure that if it wasn’t a party with influential people Chris would have punched him. Nat doesn’t need to be reminded of his sins and torments against George and walks away from Chris and the bar. The scotch burns his mouth, sanitizes it, and he pretends Chris isn’t there judging him. Nat hasn’t forgotten about George. He remembers what it was like to touch him, to laugh with him (at him), and to have George’s skin under his lips.

++

He tracks George down because he can. He went from wanting to be a journalist to a rising star among the Tories. George is just another stepping stone, someone to use. The best contacts are when one knows the obstacles and still wants to preserve a relation.

Nat’s pleasantly buzzed, just enough to be looser with words and actions. He should do this sober, but he hated being sober. He was more conscious of his own faults and of the opinions of others. Intoxication brought a kindliness and added gloss and glamour to the memories of faded evenings.

Their meeting in George’s tidy flat doesn’t stay strictly business. When Nat kisses him, on the old sofa in need of a new slipcover, it's the sweetest kind of sin.

George’s mouth is still and stunned beneath Nat’s. If Nat ends the kiss now, George will ruin the moment, saying something about his fiancée. Nat doesn’t stop kissing him. He takes him by the shoulders and pushes him down into the cushions.

He's warm against him, in spite of the chill of the late spring evening. He grabs at Nat’s wrists, trying to stop the action.

"Come on Gids, you can’t tell me you haven’t missed me?" Nat says, and kisses him again. This time the kiss is tender, or maybe it's just mocking tenderness, like the way he always mocked George for wanting more.

“You can’t flit back into my life and expect me to change everything to fit you back in. I’m getting married in April.”

“Bully for you.” Nat grinds against George’s thigh and this time he kisses Nat back, making a little eager sound in the back of his throat that goes straight through Nat. His grip tightens on Nat’s arms and he tries to roll them, so that he’s on top.

George’s manoeuvre fails and they both go from the sofa to a tangled pile on the floor. They wrestle for a while, stealing kisses and touches and tussling on the ground and shedding clothing. Nat is breathless and wanting and George’s hands are warm, handling Nat with care.

 

He has George on his back against the unforgiving hardness of the floor. Manicured fingertips graze the blades of his hipbones, the insides of his thighs. Nat doesn’t fight when George’s hands force his head down.

Nat’s tongue made slow circles around the head of his cock, tracing the vein that ran along its underside, teasing him. George’s fingers clutched tightly in Nat’s cropped hair. Nat flicked his tongue over the tip of George’s cock, and then parted his lips. Nat took him in deep, so George could feel the twitch of the muscles in the back of his throat, his tongue, his lips, the small sharp blades of his teeth.

George writhed beneath him. He tried to arch his hips, only to have Nat pin them down with his weight.

"Nat." It started as a soft, insistent warning, and it built and built as Nat's mouth worked him, as his lips tightened on the base of George’s shaft. And then feeling his jaw aching, Nat pulled his head away. George was shaking, his breath wheezing. Nat guided his cock to the tops of George’s thighs, where the skin was slick with saliva.

“Move…” George begged. Nat felt the muscles in George’s legs tense. Nat’s hips snapped forward. A thin cry broke from his lips. George grabbed Nat’s shoulders, his nails digging into the flesh. Nat ignored the sharp, uncomfortable feeling of his nails. Nat rocked fiercely, recklessly into the cusp between George’s thighs. His hipbones struck against George’s soft belly.

George’s eyes were shut and his lips parted. Nat watched as George removed a hand from his shoulder, slipping it down between their bodies. George closed his hand around the shaft of his cock and began to stroke it.

Nat shifted his weight so he could reach up to push the stray curls away from George’s face so he could see George’s expression when he climaxed. Startled, George’s eyes fluttered open.

“I just want see you.” Nat said, feeling oddly tender.

George came with a tiny yelp, splashing Nat’s stomach with his release. And then seconds later there was a spreading warmth between George’s thighs, and it was over.

Nat kept still above him. His chest heaved as he caught his breath. Already Nat could see the relaxed feeling fading from George, guilt and panic rising across his face. Gently, Nat kissed him. It was barely a feathering of lips.

Nat did not know what would come with the sunrise. He isn't sorry to go, of course. Tonight things were perfect, and for now, that is more than enough.


	6. Chapter 6

The clock in glaring red numerals reads 3:03 a.m. Nat's arm is slung around his waist and George waits for it to move, for the sheets to rustle and the sound of footsteps when Nat eventually leaves his bed. But George is surprised when minutes pass and Nat is still next to him with his fingers curling more firmly against George’s hip.

"You’re awake, aren't you?” Nat taps a pattern across George’s skin and George rolls over so they are face to face. The way the shadows play across Nat’s sharp cheekbones and just the selected memories that are recalled just by laying next to him, overwhelms George with emotions of the past they shared together. He feels the light press of Nat’s fingers trailing along his jaw. Their eyes meet.

“I’ve forgotten how you make me feel.” George succumbs to him and his lips found Nat’s mouth in a whimsical kiss that had been a rain-check from years ago. He tasted different this time; older, more mature. He tasted of other women and regrets and longings. He tasted like time had passed and lessons had been learned, but mostly Nat tasted of his mistakes.

"I didn't mean for this." The sad curve of Nat's smile is fleeting. "I can’t love you as much as you want, but I can’t cut you adrift."

“I know.” George acknowledges. He knows that his conflicted feelings will overtake him; he’ll curl over Nat, kissing until their mouths are sore and their bodies aching for that pleasurable release. “But you’re with me now. That’s all I care about.”


	7. Chapter 7

Whatshername left him and it really isn't a big loss. He could just fly to New York, or head out to some trendy London night spot, or go home to the Klosters to find some new pretty, young thing. She'll hear his name and fake an interest whilst her eyes light up with dollar signs. Nat thinks he has to be at the top, because it is lonely.

It infuriates him to be in London and to resist the temptation to find a new distraction. It is always England and this city that makes Nat feel an ache that appears and disappears; feelings that are frequently misplaced but never lost. And it wasn't like Nat held a grudge. Corfu was years ago. As much as he wants to, he isn't sure how to go about calling up the Chancellor, "Just calling to say hello. Calling to let you know I think of you from time to time. Somehow I miss you." Sometimes Nat will even let the fit of nostalgia go as far as letting him wonder if George thinks of him, if George also thinks about making contact to prevent the silence from growing longer. Sometimes he wondered if George could still feel the bruises from their relationship.

The desire to contact George doesn't pass, and Nat chalks it up to being 40, middle-aged, and possibly alone forever. He blames the song on the radio for reminding him of their holiday in Ankara. Warm, long summer nights, sleeping next to each other during the days, and Nat shivers recalling dark eyes, a hungry mouth and the haze of the sweet hookah smoke. It shocks him that he gets sweaty palms and a swell of unease and butterflies in his stomach when he sees George at the GQ awards. His acceptance speech is awkward and rushed; his poor jokes falling flat among the audience. Nat leaves his seat, hoping to sneak backstage to say hello. He hovers in the background, whilst blinding flashbulbs are going off as Nick Robinson and George pose for pictures. As they move away, Nat tries to get close but is blocked by a short girl.

"No more interviews at this time. The Chancellor has a busy schedule and another engagement to get to."

"I'm not a reporter." Nat tries to sidestep the girl. "I'm an old friend of his." She looks sceptical, as he reaches into his wallet pulling out one of his calling cards. “He’ll want to see me."

She rolls her eyes taking the card. "I'll see if George can spare a few minutes. Wait here." The heels of her tall boots clack with annoyance as she leaves Nat waiting.

And he waits, and waits and then realizes that she was not going to come back nor was George going to magically appear in front of him. It was rather foolish of Nat to think that one simple gesture would be able to close the ocean between them.

September passes into October and the craving for George passes with it. His distraction is some leggy Russian model, which stays with Nat for a record of 48 days. He feels like a character out of a Nick Hornby novel when he begins to flip through an old photo album, when he was young with crazy curls, a crazier wife, and a £300 a day cocaine habit. Mixed in with fading photos of him and Annabelle is a bent and wrinkled photo of George. He's reading a book; ignoring Nat (he is pretty sure he was the one behind the lens). George's dark hair tumbled over his face, and he is lying out on his stomach, mostly nude except for the sheet over his legs.

Nat can almost remember when the photo was taken, whilst they were still at Oxford. The soft laughter, the feel of his body undulating when they fucked, the sway of George's hips when he would get drunk and attempt to dance. Fucking old photographs, capturing something private and candid like him reading. Old photographs making Nat long for that reconnection again.

November comes on cold and pessimistic. He watches ten minutes of the Autumn Statement before turning it off. He feels jealous, assuming the position of some hateful voyeur. Pictures are one thing but his voice, sets Nat off into a fit of rage. Why isn't he calling? He gave that dumb bitch assistant his card. He hurts his wrist, slamming it against the table, angered by the reminder that George hasn't needed him for years now.

Christmas comes again, and even surrounded by his sisters and extended family it feels like the loneliest of all. During New Year's, he attends a friend's party. He carries a full glass of whisky around the crowded room, not to drink, just for the comfort of the alcohol's smell. As the ball drops, he raises the glass and toasts to the old acquaintance he misses the most by pouring the amber liquid on the floor.

January starts and Nat is preparing to fly to New York for a break. The desire for a change of location is inspired by another round of these sorts of nostalgic days. They've become more frequent, in an unpleasant sort of way as Nat recalls his orchestrated cruelty toward George.

Poppy, the name of George's harsh gatekeeper, calls during this time period. He is of half a mind to be spiteful and hang up, but Nat likes to believe he is no longer that kind of person. Poppy dictates the terms of their meeting at George's constituency home and Nat agrees to it all.

The stone farmhouse is quaint and Nat isn't sure what to expect as he parks in the gravel drive. The stone wall surrounding the house is fashionably in disrepair. The tall trees and the vines creeping along the building are stripped of their leaves. There are a few lights on, and set against the chilly, drab winter it gives the house a sense of foreboding.

Nat slings his small overnight bag over his shoulder, bracing himself as he approaches the door. He rings the doorbell, shifting his weight between feet as he waits. George opens the door with a look that says he wasn't expecting Nat to actually show his face, before it fades into one of his brilliant smiles. He touches Nat's arm and ushers him into the house. Nat feels like he should offer some apology or something but doesn't. From past experiences Nat knows George won't ask for one either, his forgiveness was simple, selfless and non-verbal.

They stand silently in the entry way, looking each other over. Nat sees, curls cut too short, dark circles under hazel eyes and ten pounds of extra weight brought on by the stresses of George's job. His skin is still too pale and his idea of relaxing obviously means no tie and shirt sleeves rolled up. He wants to crush both of them with his violent lust. Finally, after what feels like an eternity to Nat, they hug, brief and impersonal.

George breaks the silence, "Show you to the guest room?"

Nat follows him up the stairs, receiving a one-word, finger pointing tour of the upstairs. Dinner holds the same awkwardness, both of them eating in silences, their spoons clacking against the bowls of homemade fish stew; the only thing Nat believes George knows how to cook.

George refuses his help and does the washing up on his own whilst Nat retreats to the den. He idly flips through the books on coffee table, paying more attention to the small fire burning in the red brick fireplace crackling and popping. Minute by minute, Nat wishes he would have remained in London, preparing for his trip. He feels a cool glass of Diet Coke being pressed into his hand, and looks up into George's face. The sofa creaks as George joins him, sitting against the other armrest, at least another person's width was between them.

"I'm sorry it took me a while to schedule this. Been a bit busy trying to prevent a recession and all." George smiles, genuine. "I didn't think you would actually accept the invitation."

He allows the quiet between them to return, more companionable but still a little uncomfortable. As Nat finishes the soda, the ice clinks in the glass.

Not really thinking, he blurts out: "You never talk about it."

"About what?" George's stare is on Nat.

"How I treated you. Even when we're alone, like this, you never mention...."

"Would it change anything? We were both young, stupid. Wanting to fit in."

"What really makes me crazy is you never used it for leverage, never threatened me with it."

"Nat, I'll always keep your secrets." he said, sliding over on the sofa, unbearably close to Nat, "Is this why you wanted to see me? It’s been what, close to four or five years since Corfu?"

"I missed you." Nat's hand moves of its own accord, touching George's arm, then his hair. He meets Nat halfway as Nat brushes his lips against his forehead. George said nothing to stop the continued touching, nuzzling, and hair stroking.

"I've not changed much, but I'm not quite who I was when we used to be together." Nat murmured.

“Stop talking Nat." he said, all gentle and unhurried and breathy. He kisses Nat's mouth, nudging at his lips with his tongue, encouraging Nat to open up; kissing him with growing desire and hunger and aching. George tastes of liquorice and tea and his skin was warming up under Nat's caresses.

They relocate to the guest room, undressing rapidly. The fall back on the bed, fingertips stroking arms and naked torsos, bodies moving closer together. He coaxes George onto all fours. Nat's hands are calming rubbing circles around his spine, and his lips are pressed against the back of George's neck.

Nat spits on his palms, slicking his cock with the saliva. He pushes between George's thighs, creating friction along George's perineum and against his balls. Nat's hands grip onto his hips thrusting down, as George keeps his thighs close together, pushing back. Once they establish a smooth, slow rhythm, Nat pries a hand away from George's hip, wrapping it around George's erection slick with pre-come.

Their tempo increases and the bed sheets wrinkle beneath them. Nat feels George's body tightening and his breath going faster. Nat moves his hand faster, kissing his spine. As he comes over Nat's fist, Nat erratically thrusts between George's clenched thighs; his own release painting the inside of George's legs.

They remain huddled and panting before Nat moves, retrieving his discarded t-shirt to mop up their mess. Afterwards, Nat quickly cocoons them under the soft warmth of the blankets. For the first time in months, Nat feels sated and at peace, as George nestles against him. Nat's thumb brushes across the freckles on George's cheekbone.

Even though they are here, together now, Nat can't help but ask. "How long do we...."

"Sunday evening." George replies, interrupting him.

Nat greedily holds him, fully understanding that some reunions just had to be brief.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning- suicidal thoughts

Forty-one. The number weighed heavy in Nat’s thoughts. The time he has spent in the Parisian flat worried him. He thought that his recent stroke of financial genius with Bumi would be enough to be considered the next scion of the family. And it was for two glorious years. Surprising how it crashed down in an amazing mess of public rows, mismanagement, boardroom resignations and allegations of missing millions. The fragile relationship he had started to repair with his father was lost, and now his younger, more brilliant cousin was in line to take over as the respectable head of the banking dynasty. 

These days Nat doesn't even rate high enough to be asked for an interview for that biography about George. Not that Nat particularly wanted to be interviewed; it is just the thought of it. George is just a mere memory now. No one knowing just how close they used to be. He did not need Janan Ganesh to confirm what he already knew. Nat was two weeks too late to regret and apologize for the fucking letter.

The name Rothschild brought with it heavy responsibilities. Even being written off as the least promising of the family, Nat is firm in his resolve to not pay the toll like his uncle; dead at 41 by committing suicide in some Paris hotel room. And what difference does it make if it a Paris hotel room or a Paris flat? Nat is alone with his thoughts, staring at the abstract prints of pole dancers hanging around the hearth. He used to be fun, the soul of a party. Forty-one. His age reminds him that days of booze-soaked havoc are behind him. Forty-one and it leaves Nat wondering if his recent failures with Bumi and the Bakries are going to push him off the sobriety wagon and spiralling out of control once again. 

**

He is self aware to know that the stock in his name and his actions are falling fast within the Westminster Bubble. Gone is the swagger of the Bullingdon Boy, hands on hips and nose in the air, as if he owned the world. Flat growth. A failure of a budget. Autumn statement looming on the horizon. It is no wonder that the backbenchers are restless, baying for blood. 

George wanted David to see the reason behind disposing him as Chancellor. He needs to save his premiership. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Andy was not supposed to be heading to jail. Hilton was to remain by David’s side instead of pissing off to California again. There was not supposed to be a hung parliament causing the bloody Coalition. George’s allies, Hammond and Justine were to be loyal. He lost them too; Philip already making plots with Theresa May and Justine cozying up and biding her time waiting for Boris’ inevitable return. Even in the Treasury, George jumps at imaginary shadows, exchanging wary looks at Danny, wondering what the Liberal Democrat is plotting, keeping a closer watch over Sajid since there are whispers about his ambitions. Of course there are denials and he says he just wants to be the Minister for Bromsgrove, but they all want to be the best constituency MP as possible before they start the slow climb up the ministerial ladder. 

At first David was steadfast in refusing George’s offer to resign. His blue eyes betrayed him as his refusals became slower and less adamant. The failure of it would initially crush George, but he would bounce back. 

And maybe being in this state of insecurity is what leads him to answer the most recent text from Nat. A fit of ill considered weakness, George had somehow agreed to meet him. Too late to realize that he should have just changed his number, but George never expected anymore contact from his fair-weather friend. Not after George ignored previous warm overtures.

Now that the spectre of Nat was pushed to the fore of his thoughts, their shared history grew brighter and loomed such that George could not push the memories back into non-awareness. The teasing and cruelty mixed with the gentler moments, this connection between them creeping back like it had never been broken over the scandal of Corfu and the oligarch and the poisonous words of Lord Mandelson.  
**

George agrees to meet Nat at his Paris flat. For two men who are so practiced in meetings with complete strangers, Nat looks ready to lose his lunch and George’s palms feel sweaty as he pulls back the door on the cage lift and enters Nat’s apartment. He seems paler, frailer than George remembers. His presence diminished by the bright whites and cherry reds of the modern art that decorates the flat. George smiles first and gives a tiny wave to help break the unease between them as Nat approaches him. They stare at each other, looking how the years since have taken their toll. Hairlines more receded, a touch of grey here and there, bellies a little more rounded. The handshake turns into a hug, stiff at first and becoming warmer. 

“I missed you.” Nat says, taking George by the arm and escorting him to the white sofa. It is the beginning of the awkward afternoon of catching up. 

“You’ve always looked better with your hair a little long.” Just casual scrutiny, enough to make George feel like he was young and at Oxford again. Nat dares to touch him, just his fingers ruffling the short fringe. His face and eyes holding an aching longing that George struggles to understand. He was the one who pushed George away, choosing to punish him for stating the obvious about Mandelson the viper. He finds himself falling victim to old habits, leaning into Nat’s touch, encouraging Nat’s fingertips to dance across the contours of his face, brushing their way over cheekbones. 

Nat too is leaning closer, remembering their old ways. Talking, touching, frottage. They are both old and lonely and just hovering waiting for the other to make the first move. And Nat is going to go for it, George thinks. But his lips never quite touch George’s lips. George whispered the question at the last second because to this day he never understood. 

“Why? Why did you write the letter?” 

There follows the longest pause of the afternoon. 

“I can’t remember. It’s such a long time ago,” he said, retreating away from George. “Many more important things have been lodged in my mind since then.”

“You let me fall out of your orbit, Nat. You never expected me to make it this far without you. What you did could have been brilliant. You could have destroyed me.” 

“A reminder had to be given. You need me.” 

George’s lips quirk into a small smile. “Need you? For what?” There were no more bullies he needed protection from. Nat had abandoned him, preferring to elope to Vegas with his model instead of helping George’s fledgling political career. No it was quite the opposite. Nat, for some reason, needs him and George was not used to that. Someone needing him.


End file.
